Senseless

Four years ago, a very close family friend's son was killed.

There was a confrontation outside his home and his neighbor, whom he'd fought with several times before, stabbed him with a kitchen knife. He died on the sidewalk.

He was 20 years old.

This blog was about six months old at the time and you know what?

I didn't write about it.

I may have mentioned it later after his killer was sentenced, but I didn't feel like it was my story to tell. I didn't want his father or brother or friends to find my blog, read what I wrote, and go, "WHO ARE YOU TO TALK ABOUT OUR SON/BROTHER/FRIEND? WE KNEW HIM AND LOVED HIM BETTER THAN YOU DID."

Which is stupid. I knew that boy since he was probably eight or nine years old. He was my youngest brother's best friend. I used to pick them up when they needed rides and put their bikes in the trunk of my car. I was "Smelleen". When his Dad wanted pictures to show at his funeral, I dug out several...one of him in a boy scout uniform and another from his sixth grade graduation. One of him sitting on my couch in one of my first apartments among a group of us, sunburned in a tank top and shorts, smiling but not looking at the camera.

In my own way I loved that boy like a brother, and I realize now that I did him a disservice by not writing about him. His life deserves every bit of recognition possible...as short as it was, it was worth it. He was a great kid who would have grown up to be a great man.

For that, I'm sorry, Nathan. I failed you.

This past Sunday there was a mass shooting nearby and the shooter's been linked to white supremacist groups. In many ways I feel about it the way I felt about writing about Nathan. I wasn't directly involved. Who am I to add to the dialogue? I know nothing of what it feels like to be a minority, hated for my religion or the color of my skin. One of the victim's sons has been all over the news lately, eloquently saying much of what I feel. We have to stop hating one another.

Choppers circling over my friends' house, the evening of the shooting

But the truth of it is that my very good friends live about half a block down the street from that Sikh Temple. Sunday afternoon, my boys and I were due to be at their house for a pool party, to celebrate my friend's husband's birthday. She called me around 11:15 a.m.

"Dude. I'm just coming home from my Mom's and she called to tell me there's been a shooting down the street from my house. What the hell?!?"

I was stunned. She told me she'd keep me posted. At 11:40, she called again.

"Oh my God. I don't know what's going on here, but I can't get to my house. The entire street's closed off, and there are tanks and cops everywhere."

She called again at 12:50, finally home. "They got the guy. They thought there might have been another shooter, but there was only the one. He shot several people at that Temple down the street. The entire neighborhood is on lock down."

This? Was abso-freakin-lutely crazy. My best friend and her family...stuck in the middle of what sounded like a war zone, in suburban southeastern Wisconsin.

How do you even begin to react to something like this? It was surreal. I had driven past that Temple probably a hundred times without giving it another thought. I knew almost nothing of the Sikh religion, but knew enough to know they weren't a violent or extremist group. What kind of crazy person would have anything against them? What possible point could he have been trying to make? That no one was safe?

After a few more hours and many more reassurances from the news and my friends that the gunman was dead and things were relatively safe, my boys and I decided to go see our friends, regardless as to whether there was going to be any pool or party. I figured that since the cops had the entire street on lock down and were monitoring everyone who came in and out of their apartment complex, that may have been the safest place to be. We brought food and soda and juice boxes for the kids, as they had been told to stay indoors for several hours by that point. We basically sat around and watched the news coverage together, knowing that a lot of what was being reported was already outdated.

It seemed appropriate to be together and thankful that we were all unharmed.

Flags at half mast, downtown Milwaukee

I didn't shelter my kids from this. It was a horrible, senseless event, and something that's begun to happen much too regularly. I need them to know that bad things do happen, and sometimes to people who are very very good, but that shouldn't stop you from being good.

They got the kid's rated version of events of course, but what I want them to see is that in every dark story there is lots of light. For every bad guy, there are many good guys. There have been reports of heroes, and strength and hope out of this. But most of all, I want them to know about this in the hopes that it will never happen again. I want them, at some point, to possibly live in a time when things like this don't happen...that their kids won't need to find the bright points in a truly dark story.

At their young ages, they're just as dumbstruck by this as I am.

"Mommy, why did he do that?"

All I could say is, "I don't know, baby."

They already understand that whatever the problem is, violence is not the answer. It will become a very deep seeded belief in their little minds that no matter how different another person or group of people looks or seems to be, that their differences aren't reason to be afraid or to feel hate.

I don't personally know any Sikh people, or anyone who attends that Temple. But this event has touched my life, so I will tell my very small part of the story because it contains a very powerful message.

I'm just truly sorry that the people who worship at the Sikh Temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin had to lose so much in order for me to be able to convey it.

Vivid

I had a horrible dream Sunday night.

I often have extremely realistic dreams. I may have dreamt of some small, insignificant thing - sitting on concrete steps in the sun, talking to a friend, for example - but when I wake up it actually takes me a few minutes to shake off the feeling of the sun on my skin, and I'm often disoriented a bit as I work through realizing it didn't really happen.

Not all my dreams are that powerful, but many of them are. So when I dreamt that my son Will died Sunday night it really shook me -- to the point that I got out of bed, snuck into his room and held his warm little hand while he snored away on the top bunk, oblivious to the fact that I stood there in tears, thanking God that he was still breathing.

I had been in an exposition center of some sort. There were hundreds of people milling about, and I was happily setting up some sort of display booth, chatting with the other people setting up around me. I've worked expos like that in real life, back when I was a marketing lackey, and while they used to have an air of excitement about them, it was only to a certain extent. I mean, I was out of the office and all, doing something more fun than sitting at a desk staring at a computer monitor, but it was still work. It still meant standing on my feet for eight hours at a crack, infusing a smile into a conversation about something that I wasn't really all that excited to be talking about.

But in this dream it was different. The expo itself felt like it was going to be more about fun, not work, and I had some really cool giveaways planned for my booth. (Maybe I was at BlogHer? Ha!) I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, sitting on the floor with my shoes off, putting a display together. I had a name tag hanging around my neck on a lanyard, and I was laughing with a woman a few feet away who was struggling to set up a display in her booth as well.

Then I looked up and saw a good friend of mine, her boyfriend and her kids standing there with stunned looks on their faces and I knew something was wrong.

I jumped to my feet and ran over. "What is it?"

Her face was pale. "Its not good. Someone got hurt."

I immediately knew. "Its one of my kids, isn't it?"

I didn't wait for her to reply. She had been standing at an opening to a long walkway that led to another section of the expo center on the other side of the street. I took off running down it in my socks.

I can remember dashing around people who had stopped walking to take in the view from the windows along that walkway. I remember feeling things on the floor under my feet, realizing I wasn't wearing any shoes. I remember my name tag flying out behind me as I ran.

When I reached the other side, there was a ramp that led down to street level, and I almost fell sprinting down it. There, on the sidewalk, just outside the doors was my boss and his wife.

"I'm sorry. He didn't make it," he said, sincerely upset by what he'd seen.

"Its Will, isn't it?" I cried. He only nodded, choking back tears.

"WELL WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?" I shouted at no one in particular, whirling around, trying to figure out where the paramedics were, where the cops were.

There was an ambulance there, parked on the sidewalk. It was dirty but white, and its lights were on but not the siren. There were no windows in the back, just a plain white door and suddenly I realized my baby was inside that ambulance.

A crowd of people stood around, having seen what happened, and one man stepped forward to fill me in.

"Your boy. He was hurt. Someone called 911 and the cops came. The paramedics were down on the ground, helping him. We thought this guy was one of them. He had on a navy blue windbreaker. We thought he was official."

I stared at this man, not seeing his face. I was sobbing.

"This man...he walked up, and picked up your boy's head and looked in his eyes. Then he said, "Nah, he's not worth it." Then he flipped him over and smashed his face into the sidewalk three of four times before anyone could react. He killed him."

I broke down. I fell on my knees on that sidewalk. The man continued, putting his hand on my shoulder.

"He was going to be OK, your boy. No one knows why that man decided he should die."

Suddenly, I had to see him.

People had gathered around me, asking me questions I couldn't answer, offering me water or a hand or a hug. I physically pushed them away and walked steadily to the back of the white ambulance.

Slowly, I opened the back door. The only thing inside was a small boy wrapped in a white blanket. He was swaddled like a tiny baby - the blanket covering everything but the round of his face. He was lying on his side and I rolled him over and picked him up. His face was bashed, swollen and bloody, but I could clearly see that it was my son. I cradled him to my chest, sitting inside the back of the ambulance, rocking with him and sobbing wildly while my heart hurt.

I just couldn't understand WHY.

"WHY?" I shouted. "WHY WOULD SOMEONE DO THAT? HE WAS A WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BOY THAT EVERYONE LOVED!" It was so senseless. So wasteful. What sense could anyone find in wanting to end his life?

When I woke up I looked at my phone and saw it was exactly 1 a.m. I laid there for a minute, telling myself it was OK - he was fine - it was just a dream - go back to sleep. Only I knew I had to check and see for myself. So I tiptoed in, his room lit only by the hallway light, to find him sleeping peacefully on his side, one hand stretched out toward me with his fingers slightly curled.

He was snoring lightly as I took his little warm hand in mine and thanked God that it was just a dream.

Mayonnaise Bread

Quite obviously, I write about my children here a lot.

My youngest, Will, has often been a great source of blog fodder. Time and time and time again. And again. And time again some more and more and more. Seriously, the kid provides me with hours of entertainment daily. I swear he's some old man reincarnated in a small boy's body. He's hilarious and fearless and sometimes just completely strange.

Take for instance his newest request for breakfast.

Mayonnaise on white bread.

Back in the days of learning to use the toaster, Nick, the older boy, found a love for toast with peanut butter and honey. I mean, who doesn't love that, right? Pure awesome. Plus Nick could make it on his own which meant he wanted to eat it for every meal of the day.

Will on the other hand decided that peanut butter and honey toast was not quite unique enough for his tastes. One morning, after hemming and hawing about whether he wanted cereal or a bagel for 10 minutes and me nearly losing my stuffing over the fact that he should just pick something already for the love of Pete he sat upright like he'd had the best idea ever and declared, "I'll have mayonnaise bread!"

Surely, I thought, he wasn't actually going to eat the mayonnaise bread. I thought it'd be one of those things that kids say they want but when they see it on their plate they're all, "Well, I really didn't want that." Except that he ate his "white-on-white open-faced sandwich" happily.

Then asked for it again the next day.

Hey, if we're not dawdling or arguing in the morning? Have at 'er.

I see all these goofy quirks about my son and love every single one of them. I never want him to lose sight of how great it is to be who you truly are - to live life the way that suits you. I never want him to stop saying things like, "That's unbelievable!" or "Holy NUTS!" I never want him to stop being fearless when nose to nose with bees or while at the top of a sledding hill.

I never want him to change, yet I know he will.

One day he'll be in middle school and he'll let some bully make him feel awkward about something and he'll decide to be less of whatever that something is. He'll have a girl in his social studies class that he'll want to impress, so he'll be a little less enthusiastic or outgoing so as to seem cooler. He'll get to high school and decide that maybe the golf team is nerdy and he'd rather go out for football. It breaks my heart to think these things but I know some version of them will be true.

I know that all I can really do is make him feel loved, every day, for being exactly who he is. I can let him know that in my home he's always encouraged to be his silly, quirky, amazingly smart little self.

And hopefully, when he grows up and gets past that high school stage of life, he'll realize that if I loved him for being himself that maybe there's someone else in this world for him that will love him for who he is, too.

And maybe just knowing that will give him the confidence to go back to living life the way he sees fit.

The beauty of the unpublished post

It often happens that I see a trend or a writing prompt online and I think to myself, "Interesting! I should write about that..." Only when I start, I realize that what I'm writing is just a wee bit too personal for me to share online. Then I realize: I don't *have* to share it.

I'm then able to let my true feelings flow onto paper in unbelievably honest and real ways. I don't have to worry about snarky comments, hurting anyone's feelings or being misunderstood. I say what's in my heart and on my mind and don't worry about sounding either too sentimental or too bitchy. I don't often edit what I write...I just let it flow. Some posts are very long. Others are only a few lines. I don't worry about it following a particular style of writing, or finding just the right photo to accompany my words.

If you were to get a glimpse into the drafts folder of my email account or the unpublished posts on this blog you'd see dozens of them. Looking back on some of these "un-shared" thoughts, though, there are three that stand out, hands-down, as some of the most meaningful and well-said things I've ever written. These unpublished posts have helped me understand myself, and each time I re-read them I see the things that are blatantly important to me.

#1: Miss-Britt.com: "Say it out loud, write it down"
This post inspired me to open a new notepad document and write out what I really wanted of my life. I wrote for probably only 10 minutes, but when I was done I realized that nowhere on that list did I mention things that would make me happy...only relationships with people. I also realized that I already had most of those relationships.

#2: Bloggymoms.com: "Describe the best date you ever had" (prompt for Aug 22)
Sound goofy? I thought so, too. Only when I was done I re-read what I'd written and realized that what I thought was a great way of spending time with someone I care about probably wouldn't be seen as so stellar by someone else. Shows a lot about the type of person I am.

#3: Schmutzie.com: "What are the five best decisions of your life?" (inspired by a tweet by Karen)
Like most lists, I wasn't sure I'd be able to come up with five. But when I was done scribbling this out on a few pieces of notebook paper, I was reminded that I'm exactly where I ought to be in my life.

Do you ever write posts and that you never intend to publish?

Thoughts on goals. And having them. Or not.

As I go through this transitional stage in my life I've been thinking, obviously, a lot.

Its become clear to me that one of the big issues that lead me to having such an unhappy life previously was that I spent years chasing a dream. My ex and I had a clear goal between the two of us of the type of life that we wanted -- right down to the jobs we'd have and the house we'd live in.

But you know how the old saying goes, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans."

Its clear to me now where we went wrong, or at least where I did. I had become so intent on working to make this plan reality that I completely lost sight of the "here and now". I forgot to enjoy the current moment. I missed out on so much, and lost so much along the way, including the relationship I was in. We both had our eyes so set on the prize that we forgot that we needed to stay in touch with each other. Because without that, what good is the end goal, anyway?

So yeah. That was my life and it isn't anymore. The only good that does me now is that I have the knowledge to understand that goals can really just be a distraction. You can get so set in what it is you think you should be doing that you miss what God really is blessing you with in your life.

So I set out on this new phase of my life with new intentions. To not have goals.

I know. Sounds slackerish, right? That's what I originally thought.

I read a post by Leo Babauta (who writes Zen Habits) a few months back about letting go of the illusion of control. When I read it I initially thought, "My God that's extreme!" I mean, to not have any expectations or control over ANYTHING?

Over the weeks that followed, however, "control" and letting go of it became a recurring theme in my life. It became very clear to me that someone was trying to tell me something here. It was as literal as if I'd been handed a sheet of paper with big block letters on it.

"You are not in charge here."

And then? Well, have you ever had your young child say something to you that just chills you to your bones? Makes you look at them in awe and wonder if maybe their child-like innocence allows them a connection with the supernatural that adults long ago lost?

Because weeks after thinking I'd come to the conclusion that I do not have to have control over my life and that I was well on my way to being happier because of it, my four-year-old chubby cheeked cherub of a boy piped up from the backseat on a recent trip to the zoo.

"Mom," he began, playing with the brim of the Brewer's hat in his lap. "Do you know that God's in control?"

I rearranged the rear-view mirror to look at his face. "What's that bud?" Will has a bit of a speech impediment, and the word "control" could have easily been interpreted as several different things.

"CONTROL," he said impatiently, waiting for his dense mother to get it. "God's in control. Of everything. Not you. Not Daddy. Like, you know, in Wii. With a controller. But he doesn't have a controller he has it in his mind."

I asked him where he'd heard that. He replied with a shrug, "In my brain. I just know."

Wow. Well OK then.

And today, almost a week later I see that I needed to hear that. While I understand the concept behind living a life without expectations and the importance of enjoying the present, I haven't yet incorporated it into my own life. Or I had started to but wasn't actually "there" yet. Does that make sense?

I was struggling with control. Again.

And it was writing this post - starting to tell that story about what Will had said from the backseat that really got me to "get it".

If it doesn't stick now? I'm gonna get me one of these and you can just hit me with it.

I am Colleen Vanier, the worst blogger in the world.

While at BlogHer a few weeks ago, I was a little taken aback when someone called me an "Old School Blogger". Huh. I have had this little space on the interwebs since early 2008. Before then I had a geocities blog, and since back as far as 2002 I've had some sort of site online. Maybe I am old school.

Or a nerd. Whatever.

When I think "old school" bloggers I think of other people who've not just written a blog for a long time, but people who are far more successful at it than I.

Don't get me wrong - I don't exactly care about being successful at this, whatever "success in blogging" might mean. I do it because my entire life I've been a writer. Its simply an outlet to share what I write - however crappy or entertaining that might be - with other people. I'm completely comfortable with why I'm here and with how many people do or do not read.

That hasn't always been the case. For a long time I struggled with "why the hell am I doing this?" If you were to poke through my archives...MAN I wrote some crap! There were times I was the consummate mommy blogger, gushing about my babies. Other times, trying too hard to get folks to click over to my blog, I wrote about things no sane person would ever care to read. Like cleaning off the top of my fridge. (I did find a baggie of bullets up there, but other than that the cleaning experience really didn't need to be documented.) I did PhotoHunts and Thursday Thirteens and Wordless Wednesdays. I linked to any carnival or blog hop I could find.

I cre8buzzed and I plurked and I tweeted. I obsessively visited as many blogs in a day as I could, leaving a trail of drivel-ous comments behind, hoping other readers or the blog's owners would click back and read my blog, too. I posted ads and checked site stats nearly hourly.

I had become obsessed.

Seriously.

I didn't realize it until much later, but I had begun to use my blog and online social networking to fill the huge voids I had in my personal life. (I went to a great BlogHer session about it this past year - you can check out the 'Til Blog Do Us Part?' live blog here.)

Until I went through a bout of depression in late 2009/early 2010. I all but had a breakdown and I just mentally couldn't stress about many things anymore, my blog included.

I'm back at it of course, and back to "normal". I've stopped focusing on how many posts I write (screw those stupid NaBloPoMo things) and instead decided to focus on writing quality posts.

These days I still read blogs, but you'll notice I have no blogroll. Its just one more thing I can't keep up with. I typically have 1,000+ new posts in my Google reader and that's just fine by me. I have a fan page on Facebook for this site that I just don't do much with. I still tweet, but more often about my lack of coordination than anything else. I finally created an account on klout only to find I have influence in pirates. (Seriously? Not "Milwaukee" but "pirates"? Whatever Klout.)

So I know the song and dance. "Have a niche!" (niche smiche) "Write what you know!" (farts and boogies) "Network!" ("I need chocolate. That is all.") "You are your own brand!" (Uh...is "completely unfocused and easily distracted" a brand?)

I may be the very worst blogger in the world, but you know what? I DON'T CARE.

Because honestly, lately I've had more positive feedback on what I've written than I ever imagined possible.

Private emails from friends thanking me for what I wrote. "I can so relate...its like you KNOW MY LIFE."

Quiet comments in the hallway. "I just want to tell you I love the way you write."

Comments on my personal Facebook account. "Can you write a book? Because I would like to read it!!!!"

*I* always thought I was a good writer, but to have other people tell me that? And that they appreciate what I do?

IS PRICELESS.

I am Colleen Vanier, and I am the worst blogger in the world.

And I'm totally cool with that.

God's House

"...and when we get old we can go to God's House." We were standing in front of the open refrigerator. Will looked up at me with his big, dark brown eyes, fully involved in his story, chubby hands waving in the air to make his point. I don't remember exactly how we got on this topic, but he's very interested in all things having to do with God lately, so I just answer as best I can.

"Yeah baby. When we die we go to Heaven." I ushered him out of the way of the fridge and shut the door, setting his juice on the table.

He skipped right past this. "God's House is very very far away."

Thinking he was still meaning Heaven, I said, "Yes baby. It is."

"God's House is waaaaaay up north. By Little Papa's." I choked back a laugh. Both my dad and the Hubster's dad share the same first name, and both requested the moniker 'Papa'. Somehow they became Little Papa (my dad) and Big Papa (his dad). Whatever, goofy kids. (The grandmothers, on the other hand, each have their own unique name. Big Papa's wife goes by Nana, The Hubster's mom goes by Mamaw, leaving my mom with the term 'Grama', which somehow wasn't enough for my kids...they call her "Grama Grama". Emphasis, of course, on the first "Grama". And often times, they still feel the need to explain, "You know, Mom - YOUR Mom." Oh...HER!)

Sitting down at the table, I somehow muttered a, "Oh really?" without laughing.

"Yep. You have to drive a long time to get there."

It was at this point that I decided not to just play along, but to feed the kid a little. See how far he would go. "What type of house does God live in? Log cabin? Trailer?"

"Nope. He has a castle. A BEEEEG CASTLE." Will's eyes went wide and his arms made giant circles as high as he could reach.

More choked-back laughter. "Oh. I see. He have a big yard around that castle?"

Standing there, not quite at my eye level, he began swinging his arms back and forth so that they almost touched in front of his body when he replied, "No. But he has TEN jumpolines!"

"Wow! Really?"

"Yep! And he lets you jump from one to tha other to tha other!" Clearly, this was a very exciting point. And clearly, something my children have tried to convince me is a good idea.

"Wow. Well, if anyone could save you from falling off and breaking your head open while doing that, it'd be God!"

"Yep. He jumps on them all day long!" Again, something my children have tried to convince me was a good idea. In fact, they've tried to convince me they should sleep out in the yard, on the trampoline.

"Wow. Well God is probably really good at getting other things done while he's jumping."

"Yep." He smiled wide and I patted the chair in front of me, onto which he scrambled.

"How do you know all this, anyway?" I sat back like I was skeptical.

He looked at me like I had two heads, "Cuz I do!"

"Alright, alright! I believe you. Tell me more. Does God have any pets?"

He took a swig of juice before replying, "Yes, but no dogs. Only a cat."

"Really? Why not a dog?"

He began to swing his little legs back and forth beneath him. He shrugged. "He doesn't like 'em. He likes just cats."

"Oh. OK. What's his cat's name?"

"Milkshake."

But of course...

Finding God

We were drunk.

I mean, not really drunk. We'd each had only two beers. It was the addition of the karaoke and the dancing and the laughing that had us in such an inebriated mood. We pulled back into the parking lot of the hotel screaming the lyrics to Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive and decided it was horrific that as close as we were to the beach our toes had not yet touched sand.

So round about 2 a.m. we pulled on our winter coats and made our way through the hotel. We were probably in front of the live web cam that's focused on the outdoor pool when we shouted,

"I've seen a thousand places -- AND I ROCKED 'EM ALL! CUZ I'M A COWBOY..."

 Hell YES we could sing.

It was dark and windy. As we opened the gate and made our way down the wooden staircase to the beach Melissa worried, "I hope there's no glass." To which I replied, "I hope there are no murderers." Perspective, y'all.

Suddenly I looked up. STARS. Hundreds and hundreds of stars. Gasping, I grabbed Melissa's arm. "LOOK UP." It was breath-taking.

The sand was freezing cold, but we made our way to the water's edge. "Be careful!" she hissed.

"I'm just going to put my toes in." It was like a need at that moment. I had to touch that water.

It was ice cold. Shockingly cold. I looked up at the waves that were noisily crashing into the sand just feet away from me.

There was no end to the ocean. It just blended right into the black sky, and the stars reached down to touch the water. It was amazingly powerful. We were part of this...this endless cycle...this chain that started in the dark sky and looped around into the water and crashed back up at us. It was powerful and beautiful and awe-inspiring.

We both stood there, in the freezing cold sand with our hair whipping about us, just staring.

Then we yelled into the wind,

"CUZ I'M A COWBOY...ON A STEEL HORSE I RIIIIIDDEEEE...CUZ I'M WANTED, WAAAANTED, DEAD OR ALIIIIIIIVVVEEEE...."

 
Photo by The Chatty Momma

Thank you, Harry Potter

"IF YOU DON'T PICK THESE TOYS UP RIGHT NOW I AM GIVING THEM AWAY TO ORPHANS!!!"

Its one of the threats I use when I'm really, truly at my last and final straw. The kids had been pushing my buttons all morning -- The Hubster was sleeping after an all night shift and they'd been squabbling and wrestling and not listening to a word I'd said. They were obnoxious and loud and the play room was in  worse shape than when they'd started "cleaning" it.

But then Will said, "Mama, what's orphans?"

"Orphans are little boys and girls who don't have any parents - no one who buys them nice toys like all the ones you have."

"Oh," he said, thoughtfully. "Like Harry Potter?"

"Yes, like Harry Potter." This finally made me stop and smile. Yes, every book off the bookshelf was still in a messy pile on the floor, but my three-year-old was obviously very interested in this topic.

"He got a Mommy and Daddy but they were way mean to him, right?"

"You're right. His Aunt and Uncle adopted him and they weren't so nice."

"What's dadopted, Mama?"

He was standing stark still in the middle of the room - more still than I'd seen him all day, so I dropped down to his eye level to answer. "Its when people decide that even when they're not someone's real Mom or Dad that they'd like to be that kid's Mom or Dad anyway, and they take that little boy or girl home and love them."

The little gears in his head were turning. He was thinking about this deeply.

"Do you know who's adopted?" I went on. Will shook his head. "Cousin Luke is adopted."

His eyes got big. "COUSIN LUKE IS LIKE HARRY POTTER?!?" Luke's coolness level was instantly ratcheted even higher than it already had been because he was now like Harry Potter.

I laughed. "Yep. I guess Luke is like Harry Potter."

"How did they dadopt him?"

I was a little lost for words. How do you surmise, in toddler terms, the process of adoption?

"Well baby, his Mommy and Daddy didn't have any babies of their own - but they wanted one. And they found Luke and they knew that he was perfect for them and they were able to bring him home and love him very very much - just as if he was their boy in the first place."

He was thinking some more. "When he was a boy - like me - his Mommy and Daddy dadopted him?"

"Actually, no. His Mommy and Daddy adopted him when he was a teeny tiny baby."

Will simply nodded, accepting all I'd told him and knew it to be true. "Oh."

"Actually, I remember when Luke was a baby. I was about the same age that Nicholas is now - I was six. I was so excited to have a cousin to play with!" I smiled, remembering how the six year old me had offered my aunt baby sitting services, and how she so sweetly agreed as if it were a great idea and then stayed in the other room so I could "take care of the baby by myself."

"Luke's in the Marmy," Will said proudly, rubbing his arms.

"Yep. Luke's in the Army."

"And he has tattoos. Lots and lots of them," he went on rubbing his arms to show where he knew Luke's tattoos to be.

"You're right. He does."

The arm rubbing continued. "And he has muscles. BIG ONES." He flexed, showing me how big his muscles were.

"Yep. That he does."

"He's super duper strong. He can lift houses."

I chuckled. "Well, not exactly, bud-"

"YES HE CAN. Like TWO houses," he interrupted.

"OK then. He can lift houses."

"Yep," he said. "He's like a super hero."

Little dude, I'd have to agree.

My cousin Luke is serving with the 2nd Battalion, 320th Field Artillery Regiment and is currently stationed in Afghanistan. This is his second active tour (his first was in Iraq) and he's scheduled to come home this spring.

30 days of truth, day 03 - Something you have to forgive yourself for.

Another doozie, and one for which I don't think I have a real answer.

Forgiveness is one of those things that is more beneficial to the "forgive-ee" than it is to the person they are forgiving. Lots of people have that wrong - they'll hold grudges or stay angry for years because they don't feel the other person is worth their forgiveness.

But here's the thing - and I experienced, first hand, how detrimental it can be to other people you love to stay mad at someone for years...decades... - if you choose to stay angry, the rage you feel can totally blind you from seeing how much you're missing while spending your energy on hate.

I wish I could go into more detail for you, but honestly, its part of my past that is too personal to share on the interwebs, and I've long since forgiven the person who harbored all of that anguish for so many years. So many other things could have happened...the entire essence of my childhood could have been so different. But it wasn't, and I've let go of the anger I had at that person who was so angry.

I was actually angry for a number of years at all the kids who had life easier than I did growing up. I hated every girl who had nice clothes and every kid who got a used car at graduation. I loathed all the kids who had parents who drove them to college and helped them move in on their first day. I abhored the kids who didn't have to work their ways through school.

And then, one day I realized...that life was all they knew the same way my life was all I knew. How could I hate them for something I wanted for my future children? For something they didn't choose any more than I chose my position in life? I started to see this grudge for how ridiculous it was and I'm long since over it. I just hope I can raise my kids to fit somewhere in between - I want them to have more than I did but still know the value of working for something yourself.

So I while I can't honestly say I feel there's anything in my life that I need to forgive myself for right now, I'll just go ahead and forgive myself for sort of half-assing this one.



The List
Day 01: Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02: Something you love about yourself.
Day 03: Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04: Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05: Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06: Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07: Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08: Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09: Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10: Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11: Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12: Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13: A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter)
Day 14: A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15: Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16: Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17: A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18: Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19: What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20: Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21: (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22: Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23: Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24: Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25: The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26: Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27: What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28: What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29: Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30: A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

30 days of truth, day 02 - Something you love about yourself.

Unequivocally, without a doubt, I can laugh at myself.

A lot of what I write here are little tales of something stupid I did that I am hoping you'll laugh about with me.

I recently watched a video that was linked to from Karen's blog. Which, if you don't know her or read her blog, you should - she takes amazing photos, and recently wrote a book called The Beauty of Different. Both of which show how awesome she is and she inspires me daily.

In this 20 minute video (which is totally worth watching), a self-proclaimed story-teller/researcher, Dr. Brené Brown (who has a PhD, people - she's not just some hack) talks about how she dug into one of the most basic principles of "human-ness" - relationships. Essentially, in order to succeed in relationships, you need to allow yourself to be vulnerable. (I'm totally synopsizing a 20-minute video that covers some pretty deep issues in a few sentences - how she gets from there to here is something you'll either have to take my word for or go watch the video. Also? Just used "synopsizing" on my blog.)

Dr. Brown states:

"...vulnerability is the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness, but it appears that it is also the birthplace - of joy, of creativity, of belonging, of love..."

She figured that people who allow themselves to be vulnerable (a.k.a. those who can tell other people on the internet that they once spilt their own pee down the wall while at the doctor's office) can do so because they have a sense of worthiness -- that despite the fact that I might regularly screw up (see this week's bad day post) I believe I am still worthy of being accepted by my friends and family in spite of it.

And so, in that way, I love that I can share my biggest gaffs with you. Cuz most of the time? I'm sure you can relate. And they're pretty darn funny, too.




The List
Day 01: Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02: Something you love about yourself.
Day 03: Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04: Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05: Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06: Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07: Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08: Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09: Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10: Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11: Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12: Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13: A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter)
Day 14: A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15: Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16: Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17: A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18: Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19: What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20: Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21: (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22: Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23: Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24: Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25: The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26: Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27: What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28: What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29: Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30: A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

30 days of truth, day 01 - Something you hate about yourself.

So there's this thing going around the internet wherein people write each day for 30 days, being completely honest. Now, the posts I've seen linking to where it started have like 3 different links in them (so-and-so did it here, and then whats-her-face did it here and then good-ol-whats-his-britches-did-it-too) and I'm just too darned tired to go back and find a post with all those linkies so just know I didn't come up with this and yes, I'm sorta being a follower by doing it too, but deal with it.

I'm also not going to post every day or even probably do every one of them cuz dangit - that's too much committment. But on a day where I'm thinking "Self, you should probably post something again this week," and then "Yeah, but I just don't feel like thinking too hard," it totally fits the bill.

So here we go: Day 1: Something I hate about myself.

This is hard for me, which I guess is the point. Its not to say that I think I'm so freakin' awesome that I have no flaws, its just that I've accepted them to the point that I'm aware of them and they make me who I am, and feel I'm really not horrible person for having those flaws.

But A-#1 on top of the "I hate about myself" list would have to be the fact that I can't ever just BE. I can't ever settle, I can't ever accept that not everything in my life is as I'd like it to be. I'm constantly striving to do better - to do more - to fit more of "life" in.

I rationalize it like this - we've all got just one life on this planet, and like hell if I'm going to sit back and miss out on anything. And when people press me, I follow up with, "This country was founded by people like me who had a want for more. If they'd have settled, we'd be British." (No offense intended, British friends.)

I realize that sometimes this makes me crazy. This past year, we've trekked all over this damn state, and many times, I've travelled with my two small boys by myself. We've been to four weddings, three bridal showers, and a family reunion, and all but one of those was out of town. I spent a week in Jamaica and five days in New York. We've visited friends from out of town, taken in a Packer game and spent a weekend at a water park.

All while my husband and I work opposite shifts and sometimes go days without even seeing each other in person.

I could probably count on both hands the number of days the four of us have been at home together, just hanging around the house.

And this "I can't just BE" theory applies to the rest of my life as well.

You should see me at night when I sit and watch TV...I can never just watch TV. I have to watch a show that I've already recorded so I can fast-forward through the commercials and play a game on my laptop or chat with a friend on Facebook at the same time.

I can't seem to ever let my brain rest.

I don't know if I'd know how to act any different, but I often think I'd be happier if I could just learn to love where I was in my life at that moment, instead of asking myself, "OK, but what's next?"



The List
Day 01: Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02: Something you love about yourself.
Day 03: Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04: Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05: Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06: Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07: Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08: Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09: Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10: Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11: Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12: Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13: A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter)
Day 14: A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15: Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16: Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17: A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18: Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19: What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20: Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21: (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22: Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23: Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24: Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25: The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26: Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27: What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28: What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29: Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30: A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

I haven't forgotten.

Last year (and the year before) I wrote about where I was on September 11, 2001.

This year, I had the opportunity to actually visit what we now call Ground Zero. There isn't much to see.

(I'm told there's a viewing platform, but it was either closed due to protesting/issues with the Mosque proposed for the area, or we just couldn't find it while we were there.)

Even though all we could see was chain link fence covered in pictures of what it is going to look like when its finished, its still a pretty moving experience.

It was really hard to imagine what those street corners looked like when there were two ENORMOUS buildings towering over them.

Really hard to imagine how many hundreds and thousands more people would have streamed down those streets on any given work day.

But a few things really struck a chord with me, and I don't think I'll ever lose the enormity of emotions they made me feel.

I remember walking past area churches, each of which I'd seen on TV on that day back in 2001, where people covered in ash were sitting on curbs, staring in awe at what had happened. I remember seeing wrought iron fences that filled the background of television shots of people fleeing the falling buildings. When I saw them that day I toured lower Manhattan with my friends, I remember thinking, This was REAL. This is where THAT ALL HAPPENED.

Not that I ever really doubted it...but those churches...are really OLD. I was struck with this sense of HISTORY and maybe that's what hit me most of all...that what those buildings had seen was just another (horrible, tragic, worst-ever) piece of history the same as they'd been witnessing events for hundreds of years.

Trinity Church



Headstone in the Trinity graveyard. 
In case you can't read it this person passed away in 1760.

It was ninety-some degrees that August morning we walked down Liberty and Church streets, and we ducked into a little store to buy some drinks. We were very near Ground Zero but hadn't yet seen it. As my friends debated lemonade versus bottled water, I saw it...on the back wall...

...and was struck that people had come here for help on that scary, horrible, sad sad day. It had been used as a make-shift Red Cross station. To say this simple thing moved me is dumbing it down.

But the single thing that struck me in my heart and made me realize how amazing the heros of that day were in what was the ordinariness of their every-day was when looking in on the FDNY Ten House. There is a memorial there, on the inside wall of the station, with pictures of each of the firemen from that house who lost their lives on that day.

They were so young. They were so...they looked very much like my husband does...so much like the guys from his department.

Thanks to Melisa for the photo!

I was hit by the fact -- as I am on a regular basis -- that any given call may be their last. As a deputy's wife, I know this, but have to push it aside. You can't worry constantly. You can't worry that every traffic stop might contain a gun and a felon. You can't worry that every domestic violence call might contain a knife and someone high on PCP.

But those men that day...no one left their station expecting that the building might fall and trap them inside.

I've put off posting this for a few days simply because I'm not really sure how to end it. I've written and re-written this, and really, what struck me the most, personally, was that I've been scared before that my husband wasn't going to be coming home.

I pray to God that I never have to experience what the loved ones of those officers experienced when they knew their husband/son/brother/mom/sister wasn't coming home again.

Making due.

I wish I had more time to write here.

I wish that, for an hour a day, I had a cup of coffee and a cozy spot and the ability to let my brain purge itself of whatever thoughts are plaguing me for that day. Or whatever small happinesses I may have enjoyed that day. Or whatever crazy game my kids decided to play that day.

Any of it would be good to share. But I've been so busy with life lately that this blog (and any form of personal relaxation) have had to have been put on hold.

As I ran the water for my shower this morning, I thought about all of this. My relationship with this online space is a lot like the relationship I have with my husband.

I would like to think that while I don't have a whole lot of time with him, that the time I do share with him is more meaningful - better written - than if I were to see him every day. That when we are together, we do lots of interesting things and take our kids to cool places, and make memories that are worthy of sharing and saving forever.

But even when we do have those rare stretches of time when we're together more often, something always seems to come up. This past winter while I was working part time from home he worked a lot. He ran into overtime because of traffic accidents or had snow to clear from the driveway when he got home. We weren't getting along the best. We went through a period of adjustment after our big move and everything-about-our-lifestyle change.

This past week and a half he's been on vacation. And where was I? Working. Work has been the busiest for me since I've gone back to work full time. It was checking email from home, logging in to work on the weekends, busy time hell. (And still will be for the next week or so.) So during a time when we'd hoped to be able to squeeze just a few extra outings or cookouts in the backyard while he's home in the evenings, that just didn't seem to work out either.

But I guess, thinking about it, I'm glad to have the time regardless. I'm not about to give up on having a life that I can actually share with my husband any more than I'm willing to give up on writing on this little blog on the internet. It is what it is. I get what I can get. Its better than the nothing I'd have otherwise.

And maybe someday I can have that hour of writing while my Hubby waits outside the door to spend some time with me.

I drink alone...*

*OK, don't go gettin' your panties in a wad and calling an intervention or anything. I just love pop culture references and if you aren't singing the song already, I don't know if I can be your Internet-friend. I'm just kidding. No I'm not. Yes I am. I don't drink alone, I drink with my friends. Ha ha, I don't drink with my friends, I don't have any friends. I'm just kidding. Yes I do. Just kidding.** (And yes, that would be ANOTHER pop culture reference. Do you get it? Do ya? Do ya? OK good.)

Ahem. Where was I? Oh yeah.

I have a lot of good thoughts while lying in bed at night. You know, in those moments before sleep takes over and delivers me to that crazy place called Dream Land where I dream about not just teeth, but half of my lower jaw falling out and then later, being robbed while reading a book in an extremely vast lobby of a bank that is carpeted with a plush off-white pile so thick that when I try and run away it feels like I am running in sand. (No, I swear. I don't do drugs. I always dream like this.)

Yeah, in those moments, I have conversations in my head that make sense of my life like I'm talking to a good friend. Its great - I get my points across, I always make sense and I always agree with myself. And after writing that post the other day, I spent the other night thinking about how fine the line is between being alone and truly being lonely.

My entire life, as long as I can remember, I've been self-sufficient. In the early days of my relationship with the Hubster, I remember declaring that "I don't need a man to take care of me, but I'd like one to want to," which, in my nearly-still-a-teenager-brain made such COMPLETE sense and proved how absolutely DEEP I was. But the point I was trying to make was that wanting someone or something could be so much more powerful than needing them. I mean, I can change my oil by myself, but that doesn't mean I want to. If someone does it for me, well then how sweet is that? (Honestly, let's be real here - I live in cold-ass Wisconsin, where I'd be damned before crawling under a stone-cold automobile to lie on frozen pavement only to get all messy and oily in the winter...I mean, why would I do that when I can pay some 16-year-old kid at the Quickly Lube $20 to do it for me? But I digress...)

I've done a lot of things on my own. I've wandered the shops of Sea Port Village in San Diego and taken walking tours of haunted houses in Georgetown. I've dined alone at sushi bars in Tampa and had a martini by myself at the House of Blues in Chicago. I've flown solo to Nashville to room with people I'd not yet met, and spent a week in Dallas making new friends at a week-long conference. I took a rock climbing class, and a motorcycle riding class and a Pilates class without the support of a friend beside me.

Would I have liked to have done these things with someone else? Someone who could keep me company so as to not feel like a cliche while sitting in a hotel lobby bar? Of course. But I don't think that makes me a loser for heading out solo. I'd like to think I'm brave.

Some people prefer to wait until the timing is perfect - until their six very best girlfriends agree that they're all going to have this really super duper great weekend adventure. But I'd rather...how you say? GET'R DONE.*** (Oh yes. I went there.)

Just the other day I told my Hubby I was going to go to New York City in August. He didn't bother to ask me who I was going with. He just said, "Sounds cool." I know I'll find many folks I know once I get there. But I wasn't going to wait until I found a travel companion to reserve my space. I'll figure that part out later.

I've had lots of people tell me, "Oh, I could never do that kind of thing. No way."

Liars.

They so totally could. If its what they really wanted to do. They don't really need someone to get on that plane with them. The fact that its more important for them to be socially comfortable than participate in something? Just makes us different, and I respect that. I "get" that.

But the fact that I can do these things and not think twice about them doesn't mean I like to be alone. Its the hours in between all of these busy things where people strive for companionship and comfort and peace and love.

I guess I could just do that stuff by myself as well, but I don't really want to.

*George Thorogood
**Judy Grimes
***Larry the Cable Guy

Where I was.

Eight years ago today, I was in the office early, getting ready for a big golf outing I was organizing for the following day.

Even at 7:30 in the morning, Milwaukee skies were the brightest blue with only traces of wispy clouds. The temperature was truly still summer-like. I remember taking my sweet time as I walked boxes and bags of miscellaneous things out to the trunk of my car. I remember hoping that maybe someone wouldn't show and they'd ask me to fill in to even out a lopsided foursome instead of spending the day as the marketing lackey, destined to hand out name tags and quite possibly becoming the drink cart girl.

On one trip back to my cubicle, Randy, a friendly if not goofy sales guy, wheeled back quickly in his chair, so as to catch my eye and shout, "Hey! Did you hear? A plane flew into the World Trade Center. They think its like a tourist plane or something."

I hadn't heard. But how horrible! I imagined a small plane, carrying two or three people, hitting the building, bouncing off and crashing in a fiery heap at the ground.

I don't remember when I heard that it was an actual airliner. But I do remember that my car was loaded and I was back at my desk when I heard the news.

A second plane had hit the other tower. And they knew it wasn't an accident.

This was unheard of. What did they mean a second plane hit the other tower? Hadn't that pilot heard that another plane had just crashed? What in the HELL was going on in New York?!?

I don't remember the morning DJs using the words 'terrorism', but maybe they did. What I do remember was listening intently as their normally inane sports-ladled diatribes, laced with laughter and box scores turned serious and urgent.

I didn't notice until I whirled my chair around to go ask Randy where he was getting his news that nearly a dozen people were hovering at the entrance to my cubicle. I had one of the few radios in the office, back in a time when nothing streamed online.

A wall of dazed faces greeted me with silence, heads cocked as people are wont to do when they're trying to listen. I turned up the volume.

I called my fiance at home. Hubs was a retail manager at the time, and happened to have the day off. He had seen the infamous footage of the second plane flying straight into the second tower.

"Colleen," he'd said, "they did that on purpose."

I don't remember what came next - whether it was the plane crashing into the Pentagon, or the plane going down in Pennsylvania, or the first tower falling. I do remember the office phones being eerily silent, and feeling panicked that there was nothing I could do but sit and wait for more reports of carnage. I imagined all those people and their families and cried.

At one point I theorized that these planes were heading west, and who knew when they would stop. I feared for Atlanta and Chicago and heard that buildings downtown were being evacuated. The one-story building I worked in was in the 'burbs, but that did nothing to ease my anxieties or resolve my NEED to just get home - to be with people I loved before the end came for US.

There had been a meeting scheduled - a conference call with the company President - for who the hell knows what. Some company meeting we all assumed was now off in light of the circumstances, only we got an email saying it wasn't. Milwaukee's Mayor had scheduled a press conference to start around the same time and I said out loud that I was going to hear what the Mayor had to say and then was going home. To hell with the goddamn company president. He could fire me if he needed to. Strangely, almost everyone else sat through that entire hour-long meeting.

I remember the Mayor divulging that the buildings downtown (including the one I would, ironically, start work in almost exactly one year later) had been evacuated as a precaution only - that all planes in the country had been grounded and accounted for. THAT scared the shit out of me. This was so big - so important - that NO ONE WAS FLYING. IN THE ENTIRE COUNTRY. HOLY SHIT.

After the "meat" of the press conference, I went back to my desk and grabbed my things. I started walking to the front door and my car when I heard someone say, "Hey - they're letting us go home early. That's nice, isn't it?" Fuck nice. I was going one way or another. Just because they had our airplanes accounted for didn't mean that whomever had done this didn't have other tricks up their sleeves.

The freeway was nearly empty. I fought back tears so that I could drive safely, but nearly jumped OUT OF MY SKIN when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a huge black bird fly overhead. For a split second I had thought it was a plane - a plane that wasn't supposed to be there - and my relief at the fact that it was just a bird did nothing to relieve my tension but instead just made me sob.

I watched HOURS of coverage with Jay that day. Hours of smoke rising and people jumping and papers fluttering to the ground. Crowds running and ash falling and folks crying, trying to reach loved ones by cell phone.

We watched, unable to do anything else, while citizens of New York City made make-shift communications centers - posting papers containing photos of loved ones - "Have you seen my wife?" and "This is my son!" SO many papers. Just unbelievable.

Late that afternoon I stood out on our porch, unable to keep watching. Crying. And then it hit me.

It started slow...a single lawn mower roaring to life.

"How in the HELL can people just MOW THEIR LAWNS?!?" I shouted, angry. Jay hugged me from behind while I cried, fearing that there most certainly had to be a military draft coming. I knew that Hubs is the type of person who'd want to enlist. I cried selfishly, not wanting to lose him, then cried some more for being selfish when some people had already lost so much.

"Hon," he'd said. "Those people today? They hate us for being who we are. For being Americans. For living in a country where you can be anything you want - do anything you want."

Another lawn mower started up. Maybe I wasn't the only one with nervous energy.

We stood there, holding each other, on that porch for a very long time, the TV on in the background, the reporter going over and over and over again the footage we'd already watched half a dozen times.

Before we let go of each other, we were being serenaded by a chorus of small engines. We were on the porch of our home. Together.

And somehow? The simple fact that we could do anything, mundane or otherwise, was quite a bit more beautiful.

Hope, pt. 2

Did you miss part 1? Read it here.

In second grade, I had the same teacher who'd taught my Reading "class" the year before and everything was much the same. Vocabulary and spelling were big subjects that year and along with our regular words, we were given one large word each week to memorize and learn to spell. The day that I spoke out loud to give away the meaning of onomatopoeia? I think I still hear the teacher's blood boiling now.

And when I say 'much the same' I mean exactly the same. At the beginning of the school year they gave me the exact same Golden Retriever book I'd finished early back in first grade. Something must have happened to make them rethink giving me the same assignments for an entire year, because I do remember at some point I was given an hour of 'free play' in the lab next door during reading class instead.

That free play pretty much rocked. They had these really cool electronic games (you know, for 1985)...you'd read a paragraph on a card and then answer a question on what you just read. When I think of it now I would probably compare it with an early LeapFrog game, only in 2-bit and not nearly as cool. To answer the question, you'd stick this pen thing into one of the available holes to select a multiple choice answer. If you got it right a light would come on. If you were wrong, you just kept sticking the pen in the other holes till it lit up.

The best part of that free play was that there was no longer anyone giving me funny looks. No one discouraging me...no one making me think that maybe I'd get a lot less grief if I just played dumb.

And then, come springtime, they brought me back to second grade for creative writing again. I only wish I had the type of parents who had saved some of what I wrote, especially those early days. How cool would those things be to read through now? (Who knows, my first great novel idea could have been in there!)

The years continued on very much like this until I started junior high. That was the year my parents split for good and we moved to a new school district. No one knew me as that tall skinny little kid who sat in the back of the room - that weird-o smarty pants.

Sixth grade was the first time I played dumb. Things weren't good at home to begin with - I may have only been eleven or twelve, but that was the year I began to be left at home with three young brothers to look after, and suddenly I didn't really have time to do that English assignment anyway.

In seventh grade, there was a boy - Damon - who made excuses for me every morning when I was late for school. He'd cover for me in homeroom so our teacher wouldn't see that I was hastily scribbling my way through whatever the assignments had been for the night before.

As much as things royally sucked in those years, I finally found a bit of joy in something new...advanced placement classes. Except they didn't have AP English in junior high, just math, but it turned out that I was pretty darned good at that, too. (I just really freakin' hated it. Either that or it was the bitchy ex-nun of an Algebra teacher I had in eighth grade that turned my stomach. Whichev.)

Then, in high school, slacking became an art. Things at home were worse than they'd ever been. My Mom took a job for which she'd fly overnight to Texas one night a week, and even though someone else was supposed to care for my brothers on those nights, for me, they were often spent digging dirty dishes out of the sink so I could wash them and pour cereal for dinner for the four of us.

We often didn't have a phone or electricity, and there was a two or three month period where we were completely homeless. We finally did get a place of our own again, but those green lot stickers from the storage place are probably still on some of my Mom's furniture to this day.

To say there was too much put upon me at such a young age would be an understatement. It was right about this time, though, that I was placed in Mrs. K's AP English class.

I was sullen. I was moody. I was tired and overworked and I was only sixteen. I had just started dating an older guy who had already begun to emotionally abuse me, telling me that 90% of me was pretty...it was just my face and my still flat chest that needed improvement. He told me if you could stand me on my head, so as to put all the "good parts" up top I just might have something. He told me I would probably never be smart enough or have enough money to actually make it into college. I could go on and on but its not really worth the space.

I was skeptical, too. Here was this stern teacher who finally gave me challenging assignments at a time when I was working an after-school job to literally keep from being on the streets. When she said she expected that we work out our schedules so as to have every assignment turned in on time, no matter what the obstacle, I'm fairly certain she was talking about cheer leading practice and pep rallies. Regardless, she accepted no excuses, and that was probably the best thing for me.

I remember her telling me, in her no-nonsense way that I was bright. So very bright that she wasn't going to accept failure. She encouraged me, when forced to choose a "classic" book for an in-depth report, to pick the longest, most intimidating-looking book from her shelf...East of Eden.

She had faith in me.

I remember coming home from waiting tables, late at night, and picking up Eden. It was like an awakening to me...after all those years, to enjoy reading something again, to have something captivate me. I read the entire book...didn't skim it half-way through and then fake a report and be satisfied with a B- grade. It was the first time ever that I really truly worked hard on an assignment, and really earned that A. (I still remember - I got a 96.9% on that paper.)

And you know what? I saw a glimmer of hope...maybe, somehow...if you prayed and studied and worked until you fell into bed at night with achy bones...maybe you might just get ahead. Maybe I might be able to eek my way ahead, slowly but surely, crawling commando, arm over arm...and some day actually have something to show for my efforts.

The sad thing is I don't even remember that teacher's name. She was the first person ever who made me truly believe that I was smart, that being smart was a good thing, and that I had a teensie bit of potential.

I remember her face...vividly. I think I even made her smile once or twice.

But all of this...this is why...its so hard for me to let go. I've worked so hard to get where I am and I can't just...hope...that I won't be in that position ever again.

Hope.

I learned to read when I was four.

The local paper used to have a section called the Green Sheet, which contained comics and the daily Jumble and crossword puzzles. The story goes that I was perusing the Green Sheet with my Grandma one afternoon when I suddenly began reading the page out loud and never stopped.

I'm not entirely convinced it actually happened that way, but I do remember reading the headline myself when Michael Jackson's hair caught fire. I was in kindergarten and the teacher had brought in the paper - I remember sitting in our circle on the floor and reading the words out loud before she could settle us in our seats. I caught the look of death for talking out of turn.

I remember thinking the Letter People were absolutely the stupidest thing on the face of the planet. I was bored with coloring in Mr. M and his munchy mouth - at home I was already reading books that didn't have pictures on every page. I also lost more teeth that year than any of the other kids and for some reason that made me very proud.

But first grade was where the awkwardness really set in. Cuz, see, I was sent to a small parochial school that wasn't really prepared to deal with kids who already knew how to read. They were just going to take us through the letter people...AGAIN.

So they did what any good school would do - they sent the problem away. I was to spend Reading class with the second graders.

great.

For an hour each day, I trekked down the hall to the second grade classroom. Every day, all conversation would cease as I entered the room and took a seat toward the back. All eyes were on me until the teacher sighed loudly at my distraction and could divert the class's attention back to the front so she could gave her commands. It was clear, without anyone have to say it out loud, that they thought I was simply trying to look superior. I just felt like a weirdo.

Weirdo or not, I quickly showed that crabby-assed teacher that second grade books were below my reading level as well. Instead of working on projects with the rest of the class, I was again singled out. In the back of that classroom, I was given a workbook (with a golden retriever on the cover - I'll never forget that dog with its tongue hanging out on a green background) and told to work at my own pace.

So I did.

It was early spring when I turned in the last of those worksheets. I remember being bored with them as well. They were mostly busywork, and nothing that really was very difficult.

Then...finally...that spring I was given an assignment that I really, truly loved.

Creative writing.

The second grade class had started getting creative writing assignments a few weeks prior, but in my "one man class" status I hadn't been asked to participate. I hadn't really been paying attention to what they were doing to know if it was something I would like or not. I had put on a "don't look at them and they won't tease me" facade. Most days I wouldn't even see them in the room...it was just me and ol' Goldie the Retriever.

But that first day I was allowed to not just read but WRITE? Oh my God...it seemed there were so many ideas in my head and no matter what the instruction I could make up something and write about it. I couldn't believe that this was something they wanted me to do - that they were encouraging me to do.

By the end of my first grade year I had made that mean ol' teacher's eyes go as big as saucers when I turned in not one, not two, but three sheets - filled front and back - of my childish, large script (for I tried to copy the second graders' cursive even though I myself had not yet had that class). If I remember correctly that witch made me feel bad about 'overdoing it' and looking at me as if I were trying to seem important.

I couldn't help it. It just came so easily to me...writing words onto that large lined paper...that dotted blue line hovering in the middle, guiding me...easing me into writing more...

...TO BE CONTINUED...

Thoughts from an overworked Mama

I've been rather light on the posting lately. I've discovered that if I leave the computer off at night, I sleep much better. And sleep is pretty important. Imagine that...

I haven't posted any Weekly Winners in the past few weeks, though with the exception of this last weekend I've continued to take lots of pictures. Even though it was a holiday weekend, sometimes you just have to put the camera down and be part of the festivities, you know?

I'm trying to stay more focused on my family and my life and less focused on the stresses of work. Its sort of hard to do, given that I'm at work so much of the time, but being aware of where my attention lies helps quite a bit.

I've been reading a lot, which is something I tend to do when I get stressed. Every chapter is a break from my reality, an escape into someone else's problems. Sometimes its nice to see something outside of your current "walls" when you just can't get away otherwise.

I've been meaning to re-design my blog for some time. The orange and brown get pretty drab after awhile, and I want something new - fresh - snazzy. (Yes, I am 106 years old, thankyouverymuch.) I have lots of good ideas bouncing off the insides of my brain, but just no time. Maybe a "remodel" will inspire me to love this little corner of the blogosphere a bit more. Eh...

I've been a sucktastic blog friend, too. I continually have more than 1000 posts in my reader at any given time, but I no longer feel too panicked about them. Much online bloggy love to y'all, but I read what I can and when I can...I think for a long time I got too sucked into my online world and there's just no good way of keeping up and that made me feel unnecessarily anxious. Like if I wasn't reading posts or tweeting with just the right people I'd be left out. That's just stupid. Besides, its a bit more important for my kids to have clean underwear.

I've been getting out of the office when I can for lunch or for a break. Today the weather is just PERFECT. Warm, but breezy and not hot. There are a few scattered unthreatening clouds in the sky...just enough to provide a noticeable shift in temperature and a bit of shade when those clouds cover the sun.

I sat on a park bench for a bit, reading, just now. I slipped my shoes off my feet - you know, those lily white babies need some color - and when a dragonfly caught my eye, I turned my head to watch him fly away. Beneath him I saw the tiny sliver of grass between the bench and the sidewalk and I can't believe how overwhelming the urge was to feel that grass under my feet.

I didn't do it, of course. I felt silly just thinking about grass between my toes, so instead I put my shoes back on and walked down the block to get a sandwich. I can't remember the last time I was barefoot in the grass, or the beach, or really anywhere but in my driveway.

I think I need to plan a trip to the lake.

Only if you have boys...

...do you know how funny it is to fart in the fan aisle at Wal-Mart.

...are you asked about how a different animal poops every day.

...do you know the difference between a "triple" and a "home run" when a ball is hit off a tee into an imaginary stadium.

...will you see someone truly excited to pee outdoors. (And make up excuses to do so.)

...do you understand how important it is to retain control over juuuust how far down (or up) your window is set in the car.

...do you see how easily this will translate into controlling the remote in later years.

...can your heart be melted by sticky kisses and someone telling you, "Mom, I love you more than baseball!"

Loving boys for who they are? Works for me!

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I need to ask for your help. My quest for total world domination starts with winning the Nickelodeon Parent's Pick award for best Milwaukee blog. Would you click over and vote for me, please? Many thanks!